Chapter One

“Drink! Drink! Drink!”

The chant was punctuated by the thunder of four sets of palms drumming on a wobbly high-top table, rattling the glass mugs and making the leftover beer in the pitcher slosh. The noise raised the din in the already rollicking Mashed Spud to eardrum-blowout level.

The last of the Spud’s signature cocktail went down as smoothly as the first swallow. I slammed the twelve-inch, fluorescent orange, bong-shaped plastic container on the tabletop. Today was a day for finishing it all.

Finally, finally I was done with jumping through all the hoops and over the roadblocks brought about by a lateral transfer to the Duluth, Minnesota, Police Department. I was so done. Done with checking boxes and filling out forms. Done with backgrounding. Done with the accelerated FTO program. I’d been on patrol since May. Nine hours ago, the reassignment came down, and off I went to the major crimes unit. It had been a long six months.

Detroit and Duluth might begin with the same letter but were stark opposites. I was more than ready for the slower pace of a metro area ninety-three percent smaller than Detroit’s. The previous year, there’d been almost twelve thousand violent crimes in Detroit compared to nine hundred in the Zenith City of the Unsalted Seas. Pretty stark contrast, and I was very much looking forward to a slower pace.

In celebration, my new unit brought me to an actual queer-friendly bar.

Ryan Nash, my oldest friend and now assigned partner, elbowed me. “Can you still hold your liquor, Harrison?” Louder, he announced, “When Bec and I went to college at the University of Minnesota, she was the queen of shots. She could mix a cocktail with one hand and drink everyone under the table with the other.”

Another round of pounding nearly did the table in.

“Jesus, Nash.” Some things never changed, and I was okay with that.

Nash and I had grown up on the same block, ironclad besties after we banded together and beat up two bullies who’d been picking on both of us and half the class all through third grade and half of fourth. We went on to graduate from the same high school and attended the U of M together.

As kids, we often hung out in a treehouse in Nash’s backyard, hiding from the heat of the summer sun, since his pale complexion, thanks to his Swedish ancestry, burned instead of tanning, unlike my own. On a hot summer day when we were fourteen, he was the first one I came out to. The memory was still incredibly vivid. Even now I could smell fresh cut grass and hear the buzzy chirp of crickets in late August.

He’d dramatically flexed his skinny arms. “So that’s why you never wanted a piece of this. Actually, I was wondering when you’d figure it out.”

That was that. No questions, no comments, only all-in support. He became my wingman when we went out, wasn’t afraid of gay bars. He was the first one I’d called when I became engaged. We’d stayed in touch when I left the state, and he was the one to let me know Duluth had an opening when my world exploded.

Laughter faded, and I gave Nash a friendly shove. “You’ll make me look bad in front of the boss.” These days my alcohol intake was nowhere near the volume I’d sent through my liver at the U. Hitting the bottle had hit critical mass during the breakup of my marriage, but I’d since toned it down. I lifted my drink. “I try and moderate myself better these days. What is this thing anyway?”

Seated beside me was Sergeant Mateo Alverez, his neatly sculpted black beard at odds with his light-brown, very bald pate. Alvarez was usually serious and sometimes dour, but at the moment, his dark eyes glittered with humor. My semi buzzed, now immediate boss clapped me heavily on the shoulder. “Welcome to the Hornet’s Nest, Harrison.” He gave my bong a poke. “It’s a BB. Every rook detective gets one. You’re gonna be hooked for life.”

He’d told me that years ago, when Duluth’s violent and property crimes units had been merged, the team had been nicknamed the Hornet’s Nest because no one got along.

“Thanks, I think.” First, it felt awkward as hell to be called a rookie after years in law enforcement. Second, maybe these guys weren’t as accommodating as it seemed if they brought every Tom, Dick, and newbie to The Mashed Spud. On the other hand, if all the new detectives were christened here, the squad knew what they were getting into, what with the rainbow and trans flags hanging on either side of the liquor shelves behind the bar.

Yeah.

I liked them even more for it.

Nash threw an arm over my shoulder. “Ah, come on, Sarge, she’s not a rook anymore. Her training wheels are off.”

“Ha ha.” I actually felt safe to relax for the first time in the last year and a half. “Why’s this monstrosity named the BB?”

“The Bong Bridge,” supplied Detective Jen “Just call me Shingo, and yes I’m Anishinaabe, next question” Shingobe. “You know, the lift bridge connecting Duluth to Superior, Wisconsin, across the harbor. Get it? Bong?” She pointed at the bong-shaped container. “Slides down easy and comes back the same way. Sneaks up on you. Trust me, I know from experience.”

“Got it.” I relaxed even more, joining a bit in the teasing banter while I continued to assess my new partners.

Shingo was soft-spoken until she wasn’t. Then it was time to find some ear plugs or make a hearing appointment. I liked her deliberate, calm demeanor, her sense of care for the citizens of the city. I liked her black-eyed, piercing, don’t-fuck-with-me gaze, and the way she spoke in measured, confident tones. Dependable, would be there when you needed help. All the qualities of a great cop.

The Sarge was solid and didn’t pull punches. I appreciated that.

“Here ya go, Harrison. You slayed the first one.” Detective Sean “A-choo” Chu handed me another BB. His nickname came from the fact he sneezed whenever he looked at the sun and was never without a pair of wraparound sunglasses either on his face or on top of his buzz cut.

I eyed the drink, this one in a bright-green container. “Thought you were going to the bathroom.”

“Took care of biz. Even washed my hands before ordering that for you.” A chorus of groans rounded the table. “Hey, I like your vibe, Harrison. We’re here to celebrate. Plus”—he pointed at the luminescent cups on the tabletop—“I think you need the entire rainbow.”

I raised the bong. “I do love me a rainbow. Thanks, Chu.”

He saluted me with his beer bottle and resettled between Alvarez and Shingo. In his late twenties, energetic and eager, Chu tried to keep everyone up on the latest lingo. When I first arrived, Nash told me Chu’s introduction to the unit had been iffy at best. He’d come roaring onto the scene as an immature know-it-all, butting heads with Shingo, his new partner. It didn’t take long before Shingo was done with his holier-than-thou attitude and put the smack down. From that point, Chu had gotten his act together. He was quick to laugh, loved to tell the story of his Highland Scots mom and Shanghai-born dad who fell in love in Istanbul, then settled, in of all places, Duluth.

My own parents had been killed by a drunk driver when I was in college. If I thought too hard about what happened, it still took my breath away. I was the youngest and had two older brothers. Unlike my mom and dad, neither of my siblings had been on board when I’d announced my sexual orientation as a teen, and while they weren’t overtly judgmental to my face, plenty of discreet zingers flew. After the double funeral, they’d both moved south with their anti-woke wives. I hadn’t seen either one of them in person in years. With a pang, I realized how much I missed my mom and dad and how much I’d missed the easy camaraderie of a tight-knit bunch of cops.

Maybe now I could put some of my shredded world back together. Or make a new world entirely. It had been a year and a half since Danna, my wife of twelve years, had thrown a gigantic wrench in the spokes of our relationship. Well, not so much as thrown a wrench in things but blown all we’d built together sky high. She booted me out and moved in the cute, muscle-bound Amazon delivery driver, a Gal Gadot look-alike who was more Poison Ivy than Wonder Woman. I was left with no spouse, no dogs—they stayed behind—and no house. I’d come out of the marriage with my car, a couple of pieces of furniture, and most of my clothes. My life’d become a country song, and I hated country music.

The day I moved out for good, I hit a local watering hole and hit it hard. With nowhere else to go, I walked two blocks to the PD and passed out at my desk. At least I’d been smart enough to listen to the ghosts of my parents reminding me not to crawl behind the wheel.

The captain had been furious when she found me sound asleep the next morning. After some fast talking and a hundred assurances I’d never repeat my behavior, she agreed not to put anything in my official file. That incident had been a wake-up call in a whole lot of ways. On the plus side, I was now healing, back in my home state, with a new job and the freshest of fresh starts.

Shingo gently tapped the neck of her Bud against the radioactive container in my hand. “I’m glad to have you on board, Harrison. Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

Allowing the conversation to flow around me, I checked out the bar. The usual tang of malty beer, too much cologne wafting off overeager college students looking to get laid, and nervous sweat, probably from the same kids, assaulted my nose. The clientele was queer and queer-friendly, a mix of locals and students. Everyone seemed focused on celebrating Saturday evening’s arrival.

Televisions suspended on the walls were tuned to various sporting events, with a decided focus on women’s teams. More high marks for whoever was running the place. Tonight, two of the University of Minnesota’s women’s teams were duking it out on the TVs. Women’s soccer was battling Oregon, ahead one to zip, and the Golden Gophers women’s hockey team was trailing Wisconsin three-two in the middle of the third.

I loved hockey and played on my high school team and then with the Gophers in college. I kept up on the NHL’s Minnesota Wild, of course, and the Seattle Kraken. And now we had the Professional Women’s Hockey League’s Minnesota Frost. Dumb name, great team. The Frost had been in the Walter Cup finals—the pinnacle series of the PWHL—for the inaugural ’23–’24 season and again this past spring. We’d taken the cup home both times.

The interior of the bar was shadowy, dimly lit by strings of multicolored lights arranged around liquor bottles and Edison bulbs hanging in rows from one end of the ceiling to the other. Their glow cast a golden hue on everyone.

Servers slalomed through the crowd as they delivered orders, dodged cocktail tables, and generally avoided plowing into inebriated dancers on a checkerboard of red-and-white linoleum tile. Metallic-red vinyl booths lined one wall, continuing the floor’s color scheme. Almost all the tables were occupied, and partygoers were piled two and three deep at the bar itself.

The more I drank, the more my cares vanished. That’s right, Bec, loosen up that stiff spine a little. After I finished the second BB, I was comfortably tipsy. It’d been forever and a day since I’d had some good old-fashioned fun.

Fun felt damn good.

My bladder prodded me out of my musings. I needed a pit stop and some non-alcohol-fueled liquid. “Yo,” I called. “Gotta hit the restroom and grab some water, anyone else?”

A chorus of nopes and no thanks answered that.

I slid off my chair. Nash steadied me as I listed to one side. “Gonna make it?”

“Finding my sea legs. If I’m not back in a few minutes, don’t come lookin’, I might be cookin’.”

Nash raised a brow. “Someone’s feeling good.”

“Been a minute.”

“It has.” He ruffled my short black spikes and refocused on the ongoing conversation.

Surprisingly, both restrooms had all-gender signs instead of the usual HIS and HERS. When I was done, I zigzagged to the busy bar, patiently waiting by the server’s pick-up area for a someone to look my way.

Three bartenders were hard at it, whipping up drinks and pulling beer from a dozen taps. The crowd was thirsty tonight. Duh, Bec, bar patrons are always thirsty.

“Hey, hotness, what can I get for you?” The low voice slid over me like the smoothest silk. My attention whipped from crowd-watching to a pair of bright, greenish-hazel eyes. A woman peered at me from beneath a curly mop of copper hair shaved close on the sides and collar-length in the back. She leaned forward on well-toned arms. Beside her, a door leading from the bar’s kitchen was slowing its swing, giving me a clue as to where she’d apparated from.

Those eyes were luminescent. The bar’s lighting somehow made them appear as if they were lit from the inside out. For a long second I forgot why I was standing there. The first thing that popped out of my mouth once I dragged my eyes from hers was “I love your hair.” It took me two full blinks to realize how stupid that sounded.

The woman broke into a sexy smile and my insides flip-flopped.

“I like your taste. This”—she ran a hand through her curls—“is classic again. Thank god. Now, what’s your poison?”

* * *

In my absence, Chu had decided I needed to own the entire bong rainbow and had ordered four more drinks in the appropriate colors. Everyone pitched in to help down the killer brew. Before too long, Nash poured a quarter of his into my bong. From that point on, my cup was in a continual state of runneth-ing over. The hazy thought that I might be sorry tomorrow dissipated like steam rising from a hot cup of coffee.

Two laughter-filled hours later, our little group called it a night.

Alvarez and Shingo had already bailed.

With a sigh, Nash stood. “Well, this’s been a good time. Glad you’re here, Bec. Want me to walk you home?”

I considered the offer and aimed my wrist at my face. One thirty. I still felt so good. “Nah. My apartment’s only a couple blocks away. I’ll be fine. Gonna sit here and finish my water.”

“You did good tonight.” Chu pulled his jacket on. “You got yourself a collector set now. You’re dope, Harrison. Glad to have you in the Hornet’s Nest.”

I waved a hand. “I’m dope. Cool. Back atcha.”

Twenty minutes later, I was ready to hit it. I slid off my stool, but before both feet hit the ground, the world gyrated. My head spun like the Kansas twister that lifted up Aunt Em’s house with Dorothy inside. My stomach vaulted into my throat.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

I reversed course, returned to the stool, and breathed deep, white-knuckling the table. I’d been so nicely buzzed. Then Shingo’s words floated through my Tilt-A-Whirl brain. “Slides down easy and comes back the same way. Sneaks up on you. Trust me, I know from experience.”

Damn it. I should’ve listened.

Someone out of my narrow line of sight began shouting, the tone tense, angry. Someone yelled back, and then a woman responded. I recognized that low voice. She with the luminescent eyes.

That thought spun away as voices continued to rise. Trouble was brewing and I was in less-than-zero capacity to help. I wanted to turn around to see what was happening but knew if I moved my head even a little, I was going to leave a whole lot more behind than I intended.

“I said out. Now.”

“Whas your fucking problem, stupid dyke bitch? I was only complimenting those colored-boy homos on their fagness.”

All noise in the bar ceased except for the roaring in my ears and their words.

“Arne, get outta my bar or I’ll toss you headfirst out the door. This is it. You’ve had enough chances. You’re not welcome here again. Ever.”

“I haven’t finished my—”

A screech ripped through a rapidly growing ache in my head, followed by a thud, a grunt, a growl, and the sound of what was probably a chair skittering across the floor. I gripped the table harder, then forced myself to look over my shoulder.

The woman had a thin, short man almost half her size on his toes, her hands curled into his shirt. She shook him, stuck her face in his. “Arne, you little asshole, I can’t believe you just hit me. You’ve had the last BB of your life, you sleazy motherfucker. I see you in here again and you’re dead meat. You hear me? Dead meat.”

He squeaked.

She herded him to the door and helped him out.

That was all the looking I could tolerate. I straightened my head, breathed deeper, and started quietly chanting, “Do not puke. Do not puke. Do not puke.”

“Okay, folks, show’s over. We’re done for the night.” From the commanding tone the woman brandished, she either managed or owned the place.

How was I going to get out of here without… Oh god. I didn’t want to think about it. Why did I let myself get so carried away? I tried again to stand and again quickly returned to my original position.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. My worst nightmare loomed ever larger. I was a puke-a-phobe, a bawling baby when it came to anything barf-related. Don’t ever talk to me about the V-word.

Stop, Bec. I needed to think about something, anything other than that.

Knuckles rapped my table. “Closing time.”

Great. Now I had that Semisonic earworm boring into my skull on top of the hell I was already in. No idea how long I listened to the sounds of tables and chairs being straightened and rearranged. Nausea and the pain were all-consuming. Someone turned the lights up. My head throbbed even harder. Then came the soggy splat of wet rags as tables were wiped down.

I knew I had to go but didn’t dare shift a muscle.

A bang by my elbow made me jump. I swallowed hard.

“Come on, I said it was—hey, are you okay?” The luminescent lady again. Her low voice morphed from stern to concerned.

“Uhh” was all I could produce through gritted teeth.

“Can I call someone to pick you up?”

“Uhh.”

“Shit.” The woman exhaled heavily.

“Boss, you okay out there?” someone called.

“Yeah. Why don’t you guys hit the overheads and go ahead and take off.”

“We’re not done—”

“It’s all right. I’ll finish up. But will you lock the front door when you go?”

“You bet.” Footsteps. A shwap-thunk. “You’re sure you’re good?”

“I am. Thanks, Clare. I’ll take care of whatever’s not done.”

After a few seconds, the brightness in front of my squinched eyelids thankfully dimmed.

The world went silent.

“What’s your name?” The woman’s voice was gentle now, at a much more agreeable volume.

“Uhh.” Any more than that and I was going to lose it all over the table. That must not happen. Must not. Must not. The words rolled in circles around my brain.

Another sigh.

“If you move, you’re going to throw up, aren’t you?”

“Mmm.” Now I didn’t even dare open my mouth.

“Jesus. Guess you should’ve come up for water sooner. Okay. I’ll get a garbage can and sit here with you till you feel better. Then we’ll either get you upstairs or home.”

I didn’t reply.

* * *

Every inch of my body ached. I tried to open my eye, but someone had plucked out my eyeball, rolled it around in the sand, then shoved it back in again.

The hard surface under my face didn’t feel like a beach. I forced the eye open.

Blurry fairy lights.

The smell of booze.

Oh, fuck. I was still at the bar.

Metallic clanging and banging hurt my head. My eyelid slid shut.

Muted memories flitted in and out.

BBs.

Laughter.

One-upping each other with on-the-job horror stories.

Then nothing.

My stomach ached. My sides ached. My back ached. My head was threatening to blow itself off my neck.

I whimpered.

Death, please hurry and take me now.

Death gave me the finger.

Little fucker.

I managed to open both eyes. My cheek was stuck to the table. The taste in my mouth was horrifying. Shame and embarrassment oozed down my spine. I had no memory of the cause of my physical discomfort, but I knew exactly what had happened. What would my partners have to say about this? What if Alvarez heard?

Stop, Bec. One thing at a time. Present predicament takes priority. More shards of memory from the previous few hours flashed and fled. The concerned look on my reluctant rescuer’s face. Her steadying hand as I staggered back and forth to the bathroom. Her telling me I was going to live when I was sure I wasn’t. Right there if I needed her. Her patience. Her kindness. My head in a garbage can too many times. Over the toilet. Cool bathroom tiles under my palms.

The thought of what was probably on those tiles in a public restroom nearly made me gag again.

Breathe slow.

Breathe deep.

Should’ve stayed away from the BBs. Stuck with beer. I didn’t like beer enough to get wasted on it. But those BBs, they were so good going down.

I never, ever wanted to see another one.

More metallic bangs. Pots and pans?

Who cares. Get out.

Get out now.

I ripped my cheek off the table, afraid I’d left half my face behind. With less success, I tried to ignore unrelenting nausea. Unsteadily, I wiggled out of the booth. Stood. Stumbled for the door, flipped open the deadbolt, and fled.

One thing was certain. I’d never show my face in The Mashed Spud again.